


Negative Space

by erebones, losebetter



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dry Orgasm, Explicit Consent, Knotting, M/M, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Sex Toys, Sexual Humor, Sexual Tension, misuse of magical items
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 08:02:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16850233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones, https://archiveofourown.org/users/losebetter/pseuds/losebetter
Summary: “You know,” Jester says, as she is scratching out her third attempt—satisfactory for some, but not quite what Caleb is looking for— “this would be so much easier if I knew what Fjord’s dick looked like. Can’t I just do Molly’s instead? He had averygood—”“Ja, so you have stated,” Caleb interrupts, trying to rub the moue off his face with the back of his hand. Respect to the dead and so forth, but if he’d wanted some ofthathe would have ordered the breakfast scramble at the bar.





	Negative Space

**Author's Note:**

> grey a/n: hilariously, i've dedicated a weird amount of time to worldbuilding condoms that will function properly with a knot, but this fic was kind of a surprise and we didn't use any of it. it's PWP, baby!
> 
> rache a/n: yeah there's pages and pages and PAGES of discussion in a doc somewhere about orc business and someday we will get into the nitty-gritty of it but for now... consider this a teaser ;)
> 
>  **UPDATE 12/9:** some people have been incredible heroes and done ART for this fic!! we've put it in the body of the text, but please check the end notes for full artist credits and links and all that good stuff. MWAH. <3

The idea begins, as so many terrible ideas do, with one Jester Lavorre.

Or so Caleb tells himself. It’s much easier to allow himself these indiscretions when he can lay the blame at someone else’s door. Not that he’s _ashamed_ of having… baser urges. It’s perfectly natural. Perfectly acceptable, socially speaking, to approach a very dear friend to ask for… _assistance_. Assistance with a very delicate matter.

He lays his plan out very carefully in his head. He waits for a quiet couple of days in between jobs, when there’s not much else going on and everyone is too busy catching up on sleep or spending their hard-earned gold to notice when he taps Jester on the shoulder and pulls her aside after dinner.

Jester listens with a surprising amount of patience as he presents his request, and when he’s finished she just _looks_ at him for a while, lavender eyes uncomfortably keen on his face. Sometimes he forgets that for someone who lived indoors for so much of her life, she can be quite shrewd. Then she gives a delicate little cough—almost a chuckle. Her cheeks go a little hollow, as if she were biting the insides to keep from laughing.

“If you would rather not,” Caleb says stiffly, only now beginning to feel the warmth of embarrassment climb up his neck, “please say so, and I’ll forget all about this discussion.”

“Of course I want to help you, Cay-leb!” she chirps. “I am the _best_ at drawing dicks, you know.”

“Yes, well.” Caleb coughs and tugs on his scarf. “That’s why I came to you, our resident… dick expert…”

Jester wrinkles up her nose. “I mean I would not say I am a _dick_ _expert_.” She leans in very close and stage-whispers, “Now if you wanted me to paint you some boob—”

“Yes, all right, that’s quite enough, _danke._ ” He clears his throat and pats her hand, feeling bad for his brusqueness. “Just the, um. Just the one thing should suffice. Now. Perhaps we can discuss the details in a more private setting…?”

Jester rolls her eyes at him, and then at the common room of the inn, which is fairly quiet for this time of night. “I mean if you want to go up to my room where Beau also is, or _your_ room where _Fjord_ also is—”

“Ja, point taken.”

“I thought so.” She grins wickedly and pulls her sketchbook out of her satchel, setting it spine-down on the table with a resounding _thump_. “Let’s talk dimensions.”

Caleb feels himself go red as a tomato. But he’s come this far, so he hunches over the table and mumbles his requests as _sotto voce_ as he can without being completely inaudible. Jester scribbles away happily, stopping now and then to turn her sketchbook this way and that for his appraisal.

“You know,” she says, as she is scratching out her third attempt—satisfactory for some, but not quite what Caleb is looking for— “this would be so much easier if I knew what Fjord’s dick looked like. Can’t I just do Molly’s instead? He had a _very_ good—”

“Ja, so you have stated,” Caleb interrupts, trying to rub the moue off his face with the back of his hand. Respect to the dead and so forth, but if he’d wanted some of _that_ he would have ordered the breakfast scramble at the bar. Then he realizes what Jester has actually said and wants to vanish into the floor. “Also, for the record, I did not say _Fjord_ specifically—”

“Uh-huhhhh, sure, sure.”

Caleb sighs deeply. “Can’t a friend ask another friend for help in making a—a sex toy without _aspersions_ being made?”

“I am not _making asperrrsions_ ,” Jester trills. “I am just saying these are _pret-ty specific_ instructions here, Cay-leb.”

Caleb has no rebuttal to that. He folds his arms over his chest and sits back in his chair with an obstinate huff. “It’s not—” he begins. Across the table, Jester’s eyebrows climb her face as she _rips_ out another ruined page and starts on the next with glee. “It is not like that, all right? I don’t want…”

Jester’s pen slows. “Don’t want what?”

“You know.” He makes a vague, unhelpful gesture that explains nothing. “I don’t want to infringe upon his privacy, or… or cross a line he isn’t even aware has been drawn. Do you understand?”

Jester taps the tip of her quill against her lower lip thoughtfully, her furrowed brows making a little crinkle at the bridge of her freckled nose. “Yes, I understand,” she says, more seriously than before. Then, with a little shock of renewed enthusiasm, “Okay but are you _sure_ about the Molly thing because tiefling anatomy is _very_ interesting—”

“ _Jester_!”

“O _kay_ , okay o _kayyyy_. You’re no fun.”

Caleb sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. “If you’re so keen on it, why don’t you make one for yourself?”

Jester’s eyes go as wide as two saucers. “Caleb you are a _genius_.”

“So I’ve been told.” He hides his smirk behind his hand. “But I think, in this instance, that perhaps you should not tell Beauregard where exactly you received this inspiration from, ja?”

She squints thoughtfully at the page. “I think that is probably the best idea you’ve had all night, Caleb. Okay, tell me what you think of _this!”_

Caleb scoots forward in his chair to examine her handiwork. The blush, which had receded during their banter, returns full force. “You are a very good artist,” he says, a touch strained.

“Aren’t I?” she sings, sweet and innocent as a songbird. “I think this is pretty good but I can change whatever you want before I paint it!”

“What kind of, erm… material will it be made out of?”

Jester shrugs. “I don’t know, it changes every time. Sometimes it is stone, sometimes wood… we will just have to see. If it’s, you know, like _paper_ or something I can try again until it comes out right!”

“ _Danke_ , Jester,” Caleb says earnestly. “I know it is a bit of an awkward request but I really—”

“It isn’t awkward at all!” she insists, with a clever glint to her eye that he doesn’t entirely trust. “At least not for _meee_. Now.” She snaps the book shut and holds it tight to her chest. “Go away and I’ll come find you when it’s done okay?”

The thought of returning to the room he’s sharing with Fjord is frankly unbearable, so he decides instead to go for a walk. The city they’ve posted up in is of middling size, a little smaller than Zadash, and provides plenty of open street for ambling, nose in his scarf and the crisp early-spring air tickling his exposed ears. As he walks, the awkward tension in his shoulders begins to dissolve, replaced with anticipation.

Soon, perhaps tomorrow, he will be able to engineer an hour or so alone. Have the room to himself. He will lock the door, and drape silver twine across the handle. And then he’ll lay in bed, just him, the sheets kicked off, sweat rising lightly to his skin and—

He turns a corner and marches on a little quicker, face tucked low against the wind. Now is not the time to think of such things. But later… later.

He returns to the inn and is halfway down the hall to his room when a door flings open and Jester cannonballs into his path. There’s a bout of stifled giggles from behind her, and then she slams the door shut again and leans against it, grinning and breathless.

“I did it!” she whisper-shouts. “Caleb it’s _amazinggg_.”

Caleb coughs and looks around, but the upstairs landing is still deserted. “All right. Erm, my coinpurse is in my quarters—”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, I know you’re good for it.” She takes her hands out from behind her back and thrusts a bundle into his hands. Somewhere she had found pretty paper, the sort used for wrapping nameday gifts, but the entire effect is far from discreet: the shape is undeniably phallic, and surprisingly dense and heavy when she dumps it into his hands. “It’s stone,” she says quickly before he can ask. “The first one was made of like animal bone or something—at least I hope it was an animal. But bone is pretty porous so it wasn’t going to be very _san-i-tar-y_.” She giggle-snorts and slaps a hand over her mouth. “ _Ahem._ ”

“Right. Um, thank you, Jester.” His ears are burning—all of him is burning, in fact, down his collar and under his arms where nervous sweat has started to bead. He can still hear muffled whispers and giggling from behind the door, and has a horrible suspicion that Beau and Nott both had some degree of input on the final product. “I’ll just… be going.”

“Okayyy, have fun Caleb!”

He makes his escape, the package tucked under his arm to hide it from view. The room he’s sharing with Fjord is toward the end of the hall, and he ducks inside without knocking, too flustered to bother with propriety. Thankfully the door has been left unlocked. He slips inside and stops stock-still.

Fjord is standing in the middle of the room staring at him. He must be halfway into his nightclothes: his armor has already been removed, stacked neatly in the corner, and he’s dressed down to leggings and stocking feet, shirt half-folded in his hands. Caleb’s eyes drop from his face to his chest to the floor.

“Er, _hallo_. Sorry to barge in,” he mumbles, and makes a beeline for his pack where it sits against the wall.

“Whatcha got there?” Fjord asks politely.

“Nothing,” Caleb lies. He kneels down and shoves the damn thing into his pack as deep as it will go. “Prank gift from Jester.”

“Sounds dire.” His voice is especially low and twangy tonight, thanks to the ale he was putting away with dinner, and it prickles the hairs on the back of Caleb’s neck as he fumbles for his own nightshirt. “Y’need any help dealin’ with it?”

Caleb’s vivid imagination provides him with a mental picture of Fjord _helping him deal with it_ , and he pauses mid-grope, still elbow-deep in his pack. “I… no, thank you, Fjord. It’s nothing serious.”

“All right, if you say so.” Fjord sounds doubtful, but he’s too much of a gentleman to press the issue further, thank goodness. The floor creaks a bit under his bare feet and cloth sifts against skin, and by the time Caleb turns, Fjord has retired to bed. Caleb makes quick work of changing and escapes to his side of the mattress, heart rat-tatting against his sternum.

Fjord drops off almost immediately, but Caleb lays awake for a long while, listening to him breathe. It’s a sizeable bed, at least. Plenty of room to lay perfectly still and pretend he can’t feel Fjord’s warmth radiating toward him from across the mattress. In the dark, Fjord’s slightly raspy breathing seems loud and accusatory. A little thrill lights up Caleb’s spine and he turns his head on the pillow. Fjord is facing away from him, shoulder rising and falling with every breath. He’s asleep, definitely.

Moving in slow, painstaking increments, Caleb slips out of bed and pads across the room to his pack. He sticks his arm inside and closes his hand around the cool, hard shape at the bottom.

The damn tissue paper sounds like an alarm bell going off to his sensitive ears, and he freezes up every few seconds, waiting to be discovered. Caleb considers wasting a silence spell but discards the idea out of hand; the breath from the bed remains still steady and even, and he isn’t doing anything wrong anyway. Fjord can mind his own damn business.

He tears the paper off in a rush and draws his prize free. The pit of his stomach goes warm and gooey as he feels the heft and weight of it, the smooth, polished surface. It’s too dark in here to make much out, but the feel of it in his hands is promising.

In bed, Fjord rolls onto his back and starts to snore quietly. Caleb bites his lip. With the object cradled in both hands, he tiptoes back to the bed and stands over Fjord in the dark. He’s completely still, apart from the rise and fall of his chest, and the faint snores sound genuine. Caleb clears his throat.

“Fjord,” he stage-whispers, barely more than a breath. Nothing. “ _Fjord._ ”

The cadence doesn’t change. He’s safe.

Caleb moves to his side of the bed and casts dancing lights with a quiet word and a gesture. The object in his hands is a dark grey-green, smooth as polished agate, and incredibly realistic in spite of the cool, impersonal material. The head is blunt and rounded, slightly ridged at the frenulum and along the underside. But the base is the true delight: thicker around than the shaft itself, rounded and slightly bulbous before shaping into a clever handhold disguised as a hefty pair of bollocks. It looks almost swollen in the low light, as though it belongs to a living breathing person. Caleb licks his thumb and smears it over the head, a gleaming facsimile of the real thing.

Behind him comes a snuffling sound, and the mattress gives slightly underneath him. “Cay…?”

Quick as a lightning strike, Caleb snaps his fingers to extinguish the light. He holds the dildo to his chest—which, _hm_ —and tries to breathe evenly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I was, ah, checking a book. For something.”

“Oh. ‘S fine.” Fjord cracks a yawn and settles back down. “You should go to sleep, Caleb. It’s late.”

“Ja, I will… do that. Sorry again.”

“Hff. No worries.” Fjord’s voice is already slurring again as he slips back toward sleep. Caleb returns his prize to his pack, where he wraps it securely in a spare shirt, and by the time he returns to bed Fjord is asleep again, facing inward this time with his hand tucked under his chin. It’s painfully adorable. Caleb lays flat on his back and stares at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to come. _Tomorrow_. Tomorrow he’ll take some time to treat himself, scratch the itch, and put all of these messy, inconvenient thoughts out of his mind.

/

Stealing a few hours alone is easier than Caleb anticipated. A fitful night of rest has left him with bags under his eyes and a listless expression, which prompts Fjord to urge him to stay behind and rest while the others poke around town in search of harmless fun. “Well, mostly harmless,” Jester amends. Caleb decides not to press her on it.

“I’ll keep an eye out for parchment and ink and so forth,” Fjord tells him gravely at the door, hand to his heart. He looks like a knight-errant pledging fealty before embarking on a dangerous quest. Caleb can hardly stand it.

“ _Dankeschön_ ,” he says gently. He allows himself to reach out and grip Fjord’s bracer in thanks. “Please don’t feel obligated to make purchases, but if you find any promising shops I’d be happy to hear about them.”

“Roger that.” Fjord grins, boyish and disarming, and casts him a casual salute before following the rest out the door.

As soon as they’ve gone, Caleb retreats to his room and locks the door behind him. Anticipation is already suffusing him with heat—his hands tremble with it as he retrieves the toy from his bag and casts a quick prestidigitation to sanitize it. He surveys the bed critically. It’s probably best to lay a cloth towel down, just for politeness, so he folds back the covers and spreads one over the sheets on his side of the bed.

He strips out of his clothes with perfunctory movements, laying them over the back of the lone spindle-legged chair in the corner, and fetches the last, most important ingredient from an inner coat pocket: a little glass vial with a snug cap. The contents are clear and viscous, and smell of nothing in particular when he pops it open. Clean oil is useful for a number of spells, as well as for other, more intimate ventures. He tips a little onto his fingertips and rubs them lightly against the head of his cock, already beginning to perk to attention between his legs. He moans and kneels up on the mattress.

The dildo is cool and hard when he puts it to his lips, but it warms quickly. The size means he has to grip it with both hands at the base to keep it steady, and his toes curl beneath him in an effort to stay balanced, muscles in his pelvis flexing to heighten the sweet, tender ache. He laps the stone head with his tongue, probing the little divot where the urethra would sit on a living man.

_Bitter salt. Musk. The soft, textured skin under his tongue, the tang of sweat. A hand grips his hair and a deep, unselfconscious moan rumbles through the point of contact._

Caleb whimpers and tries to shove his tongue deeper, but the divot is only shallow stone and refuses entry. Instead he relaxes his jaw and lets the head slide in. It’s a mouthful, just the first few inches, heavy and demanding against his tongue. He takes a deep breath through his nose and slides it back, back, until his throat constricts against the intrusion and refuses to take it any deeper.

 _If it were a real cock_ , Caleb thinks, perhaps arrogantly—but the imagination is a powerful thing. In his mind he leans forward and swallows, and the thick shape of the cock in front of him slides in easily past his gag reflex and he doesn’t even choke.

 _Good boy_ , says a voice, low and approving, even impressed. If there’s a slight drawl to the words, a honey-sweet drift from vowel to vowel, well. That’s just window dressing.

When his jaw grows tired, chin already such a wet mess that there are spots of drool on the towel, Caleb carefully lays the dildo down and slicks his fingers up with oil. He has time, yes, but everything in him is clamoring for the main event and he has some preparation to do first. He reaches back and smooths his thumb along his perineum with another gentle _prestidigitation._

He takes his time. He’s never taken anything of this size before, and the last thing he wants is to have to go crawling back to Jester with a plea for healing. Not with this. (The thought of going to Caduceus is somehow worse—at least with Jester he wouldn’t have to explain himself.) By the time he’s able to fit three fingers inside himself comfortably, his arm is beginning to cramp, so he reaches up overhead to grip the headboard in both hands and summons a spectral hand to finish the job.

It takes a few minutes to get it right. His concentration is shot, skin licked with sweat and stained a blotchy red all down his chest; but the image in his mind is clear, and after a minute or two of quiet swearing, a disembodied hand is pressing two thick fingers into his hole in a gut-wrenchingly slow rhythm. Caleb arches his back and hikes his knees up toward his chest, shallow gasps punching out of his diaphragm with each inward press.

_You like that? You like opening yourself up for me, sweetheart? Such a good boy, Caleb. Such a good boy for me…_

Caleb bites back a whine and urges the hand on faster. The details are a bit fuzzy around the edges—it’s only spectral after all, not quite solid enough to feel the minutiae of calluses and filed-down claws—but the feeling is unmistakably good. Then two fingers become three and Caleb chokes at the casual graze against his prostate.

“Fuck,” he bites out, banishing the spectral hand with a wave of his own. His hole feels terribly empty all of a sudden. With trembling hands, he slicks more oil onto the stone dildo and wraps his fingers around the handle. In his mind’s eye, the figure leaning over him brushes a lock of hair from his eyes and smiles.

_You ready, darlin’?_

“ _Ja_ ,” he gasps, wholly leaving any pretenses about his fantasy for Future Caleb to deal with. “Please— _bitte_ —”

The smooth, blunt head presses cool and impersonal between his cheeks. He spreads himself wider with one hand and stares wide-eyed at the ceiling without really seeing it as he nudges closer, closer, coaxing it forward until his body gives way and the head pops inside all at once.

_A broad, warm hand spreads itself possessively against his lower belly, thumb teasing the dark trail of hair that points south. His dick lays hard and leaking against his stomach, flushed dark red. The hand grips it and gives a slow, languid stroke as he presses in, deeper—_

Caleb can hear his own breath in his ears, ragged and hitched, as he eases the dildo deeper. His body is tight around it in spite of his preparation, but a minute or two of patient, shallow movements relaxes him, and he reaches down with both hands now to grip the base. The false knot feels impossibly warm to the touch. He rubs it with his thumb, teasing it against his hole. It’s going to be a short while before he can work up to getting it inside, but the anticipation alone is _exquisite._ And in the meantime…

The burn is quickly soothed with more oil and the slow, patient working of his hand, leaving behind only the deliriously good stretch. Caleb feels _owned_ , taken in a way he’s never experienced. Despite the knowledge that the shape inside him is being directed by his own hand, the pressure of the dildo against his insides is an even sweeter burn than the lick of arcane fire at his fingertips.

It takes effort, but he focuses his mind and conjures the hand again: larger than his own, sturdy, well-worn, marked with the scars of a difficult life. All pretenses of fantasizing about a nameless, faceless man have faded away now, and he envisions the earnest scrape of claws along his inner thighs, prodding at his hole. The imagined pleasure-pain is almost too much. Abruptly he’s on the very edge, teetering there with his legs sprawled wide and his fingers digging into the sheets in desperation.

“ _Halt!_ ” he barks aloud, voice breaking and chest heaving in great gulps. The hand stops, though he fancies he can still feel the prickle of sharp claws tracing his balls. For a moment or two he does nothing but breathe and sweat and shake on the towel. Then he reaches down, grazing the base of the dildo.

The spectral hand knocks with his and Caleb shudders as he hooks his fingers into the dildo’s handhold. With the other hand he traces his rim, warm and slick and a little bit swollen. He presses one in slowly, slowly.

“Please,” he gasps aloud to the empty room, to the man leaning over him in his mind’s eye. “Please, give it to me, I want it—”

_“Are you sure?” he whispers. He’s smiling, teeth gleaming against a dark mouth, eyes glowing gold in the sunlight—but there’s a tender wrinkle to his brow, too, a smudge of worry that Caleb aches to smooth away with his lips._

“ _Bitte_ —” Caleb gasps, digging red lines into his thighs with grasping fingers. “Gods, Fjord, I need you, _please_ —”

There’s a bit of heat and pain as the knot shape presses in, but once it’s inside he feels nothing but pleasure. The swollen weight of it pushes the rest mercilessly against his prostate and he has to bite viciously into the side of his hand to keep from screaming as an orgasm slams into him unexpectedly. He writhes, rumpling the sweat-damp towel beyond repair, until the last aftershocks release him—and yet it’s not over.

He looks down at himself in gasping disbelief. One hand still aches between his teeth, the other grips his inner thigh for dear life. The spectral hand controls the dildo, working it in short, shallow pulses against his inner walls. His own cock lays hard and flushed a deep red against his belly.

His clean, dry belly. Apart from the dew of sweat and the smear of precum, his skin is free of bodily fluids, and there’s a poignant ache in his pelvis demanding to be addressed.

_“More?” Fjord asks, eyes blown nearly to black, lips fat and gleaming from kisses._

Caleb sobs aloud and finally closes a hand around his dick. His breath surges in his chest and he muffles a long, drawn-out whine against his forearm as the spectral hand speeds up in tandem with the unyielding stone. It twists against his insides, merciless, unrelenting, driven by a force not entirely his own.

_“I want you to come for me now, darlin’. Let me see you let go.”_

Caleb’s teeth sink into his forearm and beads of saltwater cluster along his lashes as he comes again, jolting his leg hard into the sweat-damp towel. The stone presses against his overstimulated prostate, milking him dry—he can feel it now, the warm splash of semen against his skin, and his entire body is seized with it, a raging tumult like the clash of a storm at sea.

He doesn’t quite remember easing the dildo out of his body, though he manages it. He just lays there, half-stunned, ribs fluttering at he collects his breath and his thoughts. His hole feels loose, tender and well-used, and the dildo lays gleaming between his legs on the towel. The spectral hand is gone.

 _Beautiful,_ says the low, rumbling voice. Caleb covers his face with his hands.

“All right,” he sighs after a while. “All right.” And he pushes himself up, stiff and aching, and begins making himself presentable enough to go downstairs and order himself a bath.

/

The evidence has been eradicated by the time his compatriots return many hours later. A long soak in a hot bath and a short nap have restored him physically, though there’s still a bit of an ache in his posterior as he walks or sits, and only the intentionality of cleaning up after himself, careful to leave no trace, puts his foggy brain in order. By the time the lot of them troop inside, led by a victorious Jester, Caleb is settled in a comfortable leather armchair in a quiet corner of the common area, nursing an ale and flipping through a trashy novel Nott had nicked for him in the last town.

“Cay-leb!” Jester sings, swanning over with her arms full of packages. She rummages in one and drops a small, circular shape wrapped in brown paper into his lap. “This is for youuuu, for your…” She pauses and glances over to where everyone else is clustered in the entrance, removing coats and juggling purchases of their own. “For your hands, you know, when they get sore because you write so much in your magic books.” She tips him a very obvious wink, compounding it by adding, in a low voice, “ _Wink_. I’m going to go upstairs and put my things awayyyy!” And off she goes again, Nott a small shadow at her side.

“Phwoof!” Beau exclaims, dropping into the other chair and plopping her feet up on the table next to Caleb’s ale. “I’m fuckin’ _whipped_ , she’s like a little whirling dervish going here and there. I swear I lost sight of her for a minute or two, I don’t even know where she got that.” She tips her head toward the small package in Caleb’s lap.

Suspicious enough that his curiosity overcomes his distrust, Caleb picks open the edge of the paper and examines the round metal tin inside. The label reads _Dr. Bonner’s Miracle Ointment_ in large, curling script, with a very long list of curative properties in tiny print beneath. Caleb pulls out his reading glasses and holds it close to his face. Joint pain, muscle pain, et cetera et cetera, all in very tiny, squished letters, and then at the very end, _intimate use_.

“Caleb?” Beau says. “What’s wrong? You look like someone just lit your beard on fire.”

“I’m fine.” Caleb carefully folds the paper back in place and slips the little tin into one of his sweater pockets. “You had a successful run, then?”

“Yeah, it was great.” She rolls her head against the chair back and suddenly springs to her feet. “Well I’m beat, I’m gonna go… upstairs.”

“Um… okay.” He watches her go, a bit baffled—and then he sees Fjord approaching, something tucked under his arm, and all becomes clear. _Damn Jester and her meddling_ , he thinks, crossing his legs and trying to ignore the persistent ache in his rear. “Hallo, Fjord. You survived the shopping trip, I see.”

“So I did,” he laughs, helping himself to the chair Beau just vacated. “I hope you don’t mind—I know you said not to purchase anything on your behalf, but I thought it would be nice if you didn’t have to run out if you didn’t have to.” He pulls the package from under his arm and passes it over, ears tipped low against his skull in embarrassment. “I hope they’re the right thing, the shopkeeper assured me they would be suitable for, um, arcane pursuits.”

Struck dumb by Fjord’s thoughtfulness, Caleb takes the package into his lap. It’s paper: thick sheaves of it, layered in between with thin leaves of tissue paper. The edges are faintly ridged, softly textured when he runs his thumb along them. Handmade parchment, very high quality. Pumat Sol himself would be proud to sell such an item.

“I wasn’t sure what sort of ink to get,” Fjord is saying, voice thickly apologetic, “there were all sorts, for all sorts of magical purposes, and I didn’t want to get the wrong thing…”

“Fjord, this is… spectacular,” he interrupts, unable to sit through another word. “I have plenty of ink left, paper was really what I needed.”

“It’ll suit, then?” Fjord asks hopefully.

“It will _more_ than suit.” He grins at him without restraint, too thrilled and delighted to hide how smitten he is. “ _Danke_ , Fjord, how much do I owe…?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that.” Fjord settles deeper in the chair, shoulders hiked up bashfully around his ears. “I had gold to spare.”

Caleb blinks at him. “But—this must have cost more than a couple of gold, Fjord. Please—”

“Nope, won’t hear it.” Fjord brushes him off with a humble wave of his hand and then settles it on the arm of the chair, palm down, claws tip-tapping against the leather in an idle rhythm. Caleb feels his ears grow hot. “It’s a gift, all right?”

 

“A-all right,” he stammers. If Fjord is looking at him strangely, he can’t see it, staring instead at the sheaves of expensive paper in his lap. “I… thank you. Very much.”

“Not a worry.”

He does look up, then, because he can’t help it. The tone of Fjord’s voice is like a rich honey, frothing sweet at the edges with soft affection, and Caleb is drawn to it like a spun sugar treat. Fjord is smiling at him, his eyes crinkling up at the corners, a brief white gleam where his growing tusks peek out from between his lips. Caleb takes a steadying breath.

“Well. I should probably take this upstairs. It wouldn’t do to spill ale on these.”

“Good idea.” Fjord stands, too, nudging the little table aside to give Caleb clear passage. “I wouldn’t mind a bit of a nap, to be honest. You look well-rested, by the way, are you feeling better than you were this morning?”

“Much,” Caleb says around a little cough. He gestures for Fjord to lead the way upstairs. “After you.”

The climb feels interminable, mostly because Caleb’s anxiety has spiked through the roof as his brain runs through every possible detail he might have missed earlier. He didn’t—he _knows_ he didn’t—but there’s an insidious whisper in the back of his head that says _what if you left it out? What if there’s something that catches his eye, a wrinkle of the coverlet, a spot of oil on the sheets…?_

Caleb scowls at Fjord’s broad back and banishes the thought from his mind. So what if there is a bit of oil, or a wrinkled sheet? He was alone, taking some time for himself as any red-blooded man in his prime might do. There’s nothing for him to be ashamed of.

Then Fjord opens the door. And stops. He stops so suddenly, in fact, that Caleb nearly walks right into him—he has to catch himself a little on the doorframe, arm brushing Fjord’s waist, and the half-orc startles at the touch as if he’d been prodded with a red-hot poker.

“Fjord?” Caleb says, strangled, the pit of his stomach weighed suddenly with stone. “Everything all right?”

“I—sorry,” Fjord mumbles, standing aside a little to let him into the room. His face is a little bit slack with something—shock, maybe—and his pupils are blown so wide the gold is just a thin gleaming ring, like a solar eclipse. He wets his lower lip with his tongue and seems to scent the air.

The stone in Caleb’s stomach falls between his feet and horror washes over him so sharply he could swear someone just walked over his grave. He forgets, sometimes, that Fjord is more… attuned to certain things. Sounds. Scents. _Gods, I’ve really done it now._

“I,” Caleb starts weakly, fumbling for something to say to explain himself. “Erm…”

Fjord glances down at him and his expression is impossible to parse. “Restful day, eh?” he says, a bit of a tentative curl to his lip. Caleb’s face feels like it’s caught fire.

“ _Ja_ , you could say that,” he mutters.

The smile drops from Fjord’s face. “I’m sorry, I—it was uncouth to mention it, I shouldn’t have said anything. I was just… caught off-guard.”

“I—I wouldn’t have, erm, if I had known you would… be able to tell…” The faint throb in his backside is suddenly more akin to a poignant, stabbing pain, small embers stoked awake by his embarrassment. The tin weighs heavily in his breast pocket and he wonders when, if ever, he’ll get a chance to make use of it.

“Well.” Fjord coughs lightly. “No matter. At least you waited until I was out, Molly wasn’t always so considerate.” He walks fully into the room and sits on his side of the bed, bending to unfasten his boots; but Caleb is still paralyzed in the doorway, jaw working as a million explanations and excuses threaten to burst out of him like—like—

“I put a towel down,” he says in a rush, and covers his face with his hands. “I— _Scheiße_ , I’m making it worse.” In a flustered huff, he shuts the door and strides over to his pack, intending to slip the tin of ointment into an inside pocket.

Of course, the universe has other ideas. The drawstring slips out of his grasp and the bag slouches forward unexpectedly, and the last thing he placed inside—the dildo, clean and dry and gleaming a dark, accusatory green—rolls out across the floor, turning and turning like a horrible, disjointed spinning top until it comes to a stop at Fjord’s feet.

Perfect silence. Caleb doesn’t even dare to breathe, praying frantically to himself that this is all some awful dream conjured from the aftermath of a good, hard fuck. But as time stretches out, second by pristine second, he knows it’s very, very real.

“So…” Fjord hedges, dragging the vowel out impossibly long. “Jester’s, uh, prank gift?”

He’s being very kind, giving him an out, and they both know it. Caleb bows his head and a short, frenetic chuckle escapes him in a huff. “Sort of.” He pushes himself to his feet and takes a few steps toward the bed, intending to retrieve the damn thing and offer to go sleep elsewhere, but Fjord bends down and _picks it up_ , and he abruptly wishes he could disappear into the floor. And yet. Fjord’s hands are _there_ , hefting the weight of it, fingers wrapped around its girth and eyebrows lifted slightly as though impressed, and Caleb has to bite down savagely on his lower lip to keep from bursting into inappropriate giggles.

“Quite a specimen,” Fjord says, and eyes him. Not just _him_ , but the middle region of his body. Belly, hips… groin. Caleb stands stock-still in the center of the room and waits for judgement. “Is this why you’re walking funny, then?”

“I’m not _walking funny_ ,” Caleb snaps, unthinking. He pauses. “Am I?”

Fjord’s lips twitch. “A little, yeah. I thought maybe you were sore from yesterday’s ride, but it seems you’re sore from something else, eh?”

“ _Fjord_.” He curls his hands into fists against his sides. “If you're going to be cross with me I'd much rather you got it over with instead of dragging it out like this.”

The tiny half-smile drops from Fjord’s face at once. “Why on earth would I be cross with you? It's none of my business how you prefer to… relax. It's just.” That damn twitch is back, flirting in the hollow of his cheek. “Well, it's a bit difficult to, erm, carry on a serious conversation with one of _these_ in my hand.”

Caleb's chest quivers with a touch of hysterical laughter. “You didn't have to pick it up.”

Fjord gives a helpless shrug. “It seemed polite.”

“...Polite.”

“Yes, polite!” Fjord looks down at the dildo, fighting not to smile. “Gods, no wonder you've got a limp, this thing is _gigantic_.”

Caleb sniffs. “Ja, well, sometimes a massive cock is the only thing that will serve.”

The humor that had been building in Fjord's face bursts all at once in an explosion of laughter, so giddy and boyish with the playful poke of his new tusks that Caleb can't help joining in. Fjord finally sets the dildo on the bed, but the dip of the mattress made by his weight means it just rolls right back against his thigh, and they laugh even harder. Tears threaten to run down Caleb's cheeks and he scrubs his eyes, trying to get a hold of himself.

“Honestly,” Fjord gasps between giggles, “where did you get this? I've never seen anything like—well.” He coughs, and his cheeks turn a ruddy green. “I have, I suppose, but not in this particular… format.”

Caleb sighs and wipes his eyes, sinking to the bed with the dildo between him and Fjord. “Jester made it for me, if you must know. Not—not for a prank. Um. It was a commission.”

“A commission,” Fjord echoes, voice tinged with disbelief. “It's very, um. Specific.”

“Ja, she said something similar.” Caleb winces. “It wasn't… wasn't meant to be anything in particular, it just. It…”

“It's _green._ ”

“That was _not_ on purpose,” Caleb says hastily. “That's just what the brush… ugh. I'm just digging myself a deeper hole, aren't I.”

Fjord is quiet, face calmer now but still licked with amusement in the hollow of his cheeks. He glances at Caleb and back to the dildo lying on the mattress between them. “How'd you know about the knot?”

Caleb swallows. “I have… read books.”

“Like _Tusk Love_?” Fjord inquires, a sneer evident in his voice.

“ _No_. No. Scientific texts, on physiology and, and biology—books about the histories of the various races. Orcs included.” Caleb hesitates, wondering whether he's about to cross an invisible, irreversible line. Wondering whether perhaps he's already crossed it. “I… may have seen it, a time or two. Not on purpose,” he clarifies, because he needs Fjord to know that, above all, “but you know, we have been travelling together for… for a while, and we are comfortable, I think, with each other…” He trails off, dismayed by the quiet granite of Fjord's expression. He drops his gaze. “I am sorry.”

There's a moment of painful quiet. Then Fjord asks, gently, “Whatever for?”

“For intruding on your privacy, even unintentionally.” Caleb glances at the dildo and flushes bright red all over again. “For being a clumsy fool and letting my… indiscretions into the light.”

Incredibly, Fjord only chuckles briefly. “Neither of those things require an apology, Caleb. You’re right—traveling in close quarters means we’re bound to find things out about about each other sooner or later. Including more, uh… intimate details.” He ducks his head and rubs his jaw thoughtfully, almost but not quite playing with the small protrusions of his teeth hiding behind his lower lip. “I trust you, Caleb. That’s all there is to it. I know you’re a private man and you, um, prefer to keep things close to your chest, but I’m not offended by… _that_.” He tips his head toward the dildo and cracks a brief, shy smile. “I’m flattered, really. Surprised, but flattered.”

Caleb smothers a huff of embarrassment into his collar and finally grabs the damn thing off the bed, marching back to shove it into the depths of his pack once and for all. He _is_ limping a bit, he notices with a renewed flush of shame, and he can’t help the small groan of discomfort that emerges when he stands up straight again. “Well,” he says, a touch strained, “I’m glad we’ve had this talk…”

He turns and grinds to a halt with a swallowed _meep_ of surprise. Fjord is standing _right there_ , looming over him, an expression on his face like he’s struggling between terror and need. Caleb, as ever, is but a slender reed before his gale. He sways, a bit overcome, and Fjord’s hand comes to rest gently on his waist to steady him.

“Easy there,” he drawls, and has the audacity to _wink_ at him.

“Not fair,” Caleb croaks.

Fjord’s brow rumples adorably. “What's not fair?”

“You. Being all… _you_.” Common is failing him, but when he reaches for Zemnian, the syllables get jumbled in his mind. He takes a deep breath to steady himself and just smells Fjord: clean sweat, leather polish, and spice.

“Forgive me if I’ve read the room wrong,” Fjord murmurs, thumb rubbing a slow, burning line along Caleb’s ribs. “But, ah… the smell in here is makin’ it a little difficult to think straight.”

“You can—oh. Yes.” Caleb bites his lip. “And… no. You aren’t. Reading the room wrong, I mean.”

A tiny smile tips up the corner of Fjord’s mouth. “Good.” And he leans down.

Caleb clutches Fjord’s arms for dear life as the half-orc kisses him slowly, lips soft and weathered against his own. He can feel the pressure of new tusks against his mouth and he leans into it, parting his lips, sliding open hands up to rest on Fjord’s shoulders. Fjord’s tongue finds his, warm and slick, and the hand at his waist grips him a little firmer.

“ _Ah_ ,” he gasps when he’s released, instinctively touching the dampness at his bottom lip. Fjord’s pupils are blown wide and dark again. Eager. Inviting. They follow the movement of his hand as it reaches up, tracing the same dampness lingering at the corner of Fjord’s mouth.

“All right?” Fjord asks, smiling against his fingertips.

“Ja,” Caleb breathes, “I am excellent. You?”

“ _Quite_ excellent.” Fjord nips at his fingers and Caleb swallows a moan as the feel of teeth and tongue and heat. Big hands squeeze and mold his waist, drawing him closer. Then Fjord releases his hand and says, “What’s this?”

Caleb looks down and watches with mild terror as Fjord pulls the little round tin from the inner pocket of his sweater. “Healing ointment,” he hears himself say, as if from a great distance. “Supposedly for help with pain in… intimate areas, but I haven’t had a chance to try it out.”

Fjord’s lips quirk. “Would you like help?”

Caleb is so taken aback by the offer that for several straight moments he just stares at him, fingers still knotted in his shirt. “I—you—”

“I mean,” Fjord says quickly, already starting to backtrack, “if you’d rather I left you to your business I can—”

“No.” Caleb gathers his wayward thoughts and focuses them on the grip of Fjord’s hand at his waist, the steadiness, the sturdy thickness of his fingers. Despite his earlier activities, he finds himself beginning to grow warm with the first flush of arousal. “That would be… very good of you, Fjord.”

Fjord licks his lips. “All right. Go ahead and undress, then.” His thumb against Caleb’s cheek prevents the words from being too clinical, but there’s still a strange businesslike air to him that gives Caleb courage in the face of this absurdity. He nods and withdraws, leaving the pot of ointment in Fjord’s hand, and goes to the bed as he starts to work on his shirt buttons.

The late-afternoon sun slanting through the window shades lends a warmth to the surreality of the situation as Caleb lays face down on the bed. He’s left his shirt on, though open down the front, and nothing else, and the cool air lifts the hairs on his legs and nape. Fjord’s heavy footsteps tread across the floor and he hears the faint scrape of the ointment being opened. The mattress sinks beneath Fjord’s weight, and a gentle hand comes to rest on the back of one thigh.

“Look at you,” Fjord murmurs, so much like the daydream he’d cherished earlier that heat begins to prickle beneath his skin. “Did you do this to yourself?”

Caleb peers over his shoulder and flushes to see Fjord lightly stroking the angry red scratches he’d left on his own inner thighs in the heat of the moment. “I… _ja_.” _I was picturing you fingering me with your claws_ , he decides not to say out loud—perhaps the first intelligent thought he’s had all day. “I got a little… excited.”

“Well. We’ll start here, then.” Fjord scoops a bit of ointment up with his fingers and smooths it over Caleb’s thighs. The faint sting fades almost immediately, but Fjord takes his time, working the herbal cream into his skin until it’s been completely absorbed. Then he moves to the other thigh, and back, and forth, slipping farther upward as he goes until his knuckles are grazing his cheeks with every stroke.

Caleb, meanwhile, has buried his face in a pillow to keep from moaning aloud. Fjord’s touch is so gentle and thorough, so perfectly strung between sweet and erotic, that his libido has entirely recovered itself and his dick is hardening against the blankets. He times his next move carefully. As soon as Fjord’s hand grows near enough, he presses his hips back just the slightest bit. Just enough to coax Fjord’s knuckles to brush against his balls. Fjord’s quick intake of breath and shift of weight is music to his ears.

“Can I,” Fjord murmurs, and Caleb is already nodding.

“ _Bitte—_ please. I want you to.”

Fjord picks up a bit more ointment and spreads Caleb’s cheeks with his other hand. A soft _tsk_ meets Caleb’s ears. “No wonder you’re walkin’ a bit funny. Looks pretty tender back here, darlin’.”

Caleb opens his mouth to make some reply and swallows it at the first touch of Fjord’s thumb against his hole. Taking care not to graze him with his claws, Fjord smears a generous helping of ointment over the area, rubbing up and down in long, delicious strokes along his perineum. The slight ache begins to fade, replaced with bone-deep heat that suffuses Caleb’s pelvis with every stroke.

“A moment,” Fjord says suddenly, voice gone a little gruff. Caleb turns his cheek against the pillow to watch from the corner of his eye as Fjord goes to his pack and retrieves a jackknife. He doesn't hesitate, just trims the gleaming claws down on the first two fingers of his right hand with a couple of quick, practiced shears, and Caleb can’t quite muffle the plaintive noise of disappointment. Fjord glances at him. “I’m tryin’ to help you here, Caleb, not hurt you worse.”

“I know,” Caleb mumbles petulantly.

Fjord smirks. “I’ve got a whole other hand, remember,” he says, and tosses the knife aside on his way back to bed. One hand presses flat to Caleb's back as Fjord leans down to smudge a kiss to the edge of his mouth. Warm and hungry now, Caleb kisses back eagerly, tongue breaching Fjord’s mouth to meet his own. A basso hum rumbles through him and Fjord pulls back with a cheeky smile. “Spread your legs a little for me, darlin’."

Caleb sighs and nuzzles his face into the pillow, parting his thighs. A moment later he feels the mattress shift as Fjord settles between his legs. More ointment is smeared between his cheeks and over his well-used hole and he moans wantonly into the pillow, enjoying the rumble of approval he gets in return.

Then, the touch of lips against his sacrum. Caleb shoves his face further into the pillow and just breathes through it as Fjord kisses down between his cheeks, following the path of his fingers. Light as breath, Fjord presses a finger into his body and kisses one upturned cheek.

“How’s this?” he murmurs, voice muffled against his skin. Caleb feels the words more than he hears them. Rather than answer with words of his own, he rocks his hips back, taking more of Fjord’s finger, thicker than his own and more realistic than the spectral hand he’d conjured earlier. Fjord nuzzles close and licks the place where they’re joined, a filthy reward, and Caleb shudders.

It carries on like this for a little while: Caleb gasping and sweating into the pillow, Fjord pressing in and out in achingly slow pulses, withdrawing entirely sometimes to kiss and lick from balls to hole and back again. He’s very methodical about it, never in a hurry. Meanwhile Caleb’s arousal builds and builds in a gradual crescendo until he’s squirming against the blankets as Fjord fucks him with his tongue, tusks digging slightly into the flesh of his backside.

Finally, Caleb breaks. “Please,” he sobs, reaching back with a floundering hand to grip Fjord’s thick curls. “Gods, Fjord, please…”

“Please what, darlin’?” Fjord murmurs. He replaces his mouth with two fingers, twisting them in deep, and Caleb’s entire body seizes on the edge of orgasm.

“I want,” Caleb gasps, “I want to come, Fjord, please, let me—I’m so _close_ —”

“Yeah.” Fjord’s voice is gruff and trembling as he fucks Caleb steadily with his fingers. “You’re gorgeous, Caleb, fuck—” He cuts himself off, apparently reorienting around the request. “You—you're takin' my fingers so well."

Caleb bites his lip in a smile as he head drops low between his shoulders and he flexes back against Fjord’s hand. “Bet I’d take your cock just as well,” he breathes, overcome. For a moment he’s not sure Fjord even heard him, but then his hands falters and he feels the prickle of claws against his thigh and he nearly comes right there on the spot.

“Do you—” Fjord begins, and chokes it back. “No, I shouldn’t, you—”

Caleb stills the flexion of his hips, though his cock against the blankets aches for release, and he breathes. Just… breathes. “I’m loose enough,” he whispers, arousal heavy in his gut with the realization. A trickle of sweat travels down his spine and he feels the hot, wet texture of Fjord’s tongue lapping it up. “I could take it. Fjord, please. I want…”

When there’s no immediate reply, Caleb gathers what little energy he has left and turns over onto his back, knees falling slack to either side. Fjord is on his stomach, still fully dressed apart from his armor, shiny with saliva at the mouth and chin, eyes nothing but pupil. Caleb reaches for him, stroking sweat-damp hair back from his face. Fjord leans into it with a soft sigh. “I shouldn’t,” he whispers again.

“And why not?” Resisting the urge to touch himself, Caleb strokes Fjord’s sticky temples and down his neck to his broad, sturdy shoulders. “I think you’ve put enough ointment on me to take care of any pain for the next few days.”

Fjord’s face flickers in a half-smile. “Perhaps I was a bit… overzealous.” His clawed hand draws thin pink lines along Caleb’s flank, near where his cock lays flushed and dewy against his hip. “I _will_ say you might be a bit disappointed. That toy of yours is very generous.”

“It wasn’t meant to be _you_ ,” Caleb insists, flushing.

“Mmhmm.” Fjord kisses the tender inside of Caleb’s thigh and nuzzles up into the sweaty crease. “Just give me a minute.”

As the waves of imminent orgasm recede into a pleasant warm haze, Caleb leans back against the pillow and watches Fjord strip down piece by piece. Boots first, socks, leggings, tunic, shirt… this last comes away slowly, and Caleb notices the slight hesitation as Fjord bares his chest and belly for the first time. Caleb isn’t sure why—Fjord is solidly built by human standards, perhaps, but he carries it with grace, big-boned and broad and powerful. His cock is fully hard in his smallclothes, pushing so closely against the thin linen that Caleb can make out the smudged green of the head. Fjord adjusts himself and toys with the waistband nervously.

“If you’d rather not,” Caleb begins, but Fjord shakes his head and shoves them down his hips all in one go.

“Sorry. I’m not really used to… this.”

“Neither am I,” Caleb admits readily, trying not to stare openly at the real, flesh-and-blood cock hanging fat between Fjord’s legs. It’s very similar to the dildo, even down to the color, though a slightly more vibrant green, especially at the head. The size, as Fjord had warned, is a touch shorter and perhaps a smidgen slimmer around the circumference, but it's all in all still perfectly impressive, especially considering the half-swollen knot nestled thick at the base. He licks his lips. “Would you like to lay down with me?”

Fjord smiles shyly. “Yeah. I’d like that a lot.”

He catches Caleb’s mouth with his own as he kneels over him, hot and hungry. His broad hand slides over Caleb's belly to his chest, rubbing brusquely over his nipples and sternum. Caleb arches into it with a broken moan and swallows the chuckle Fjord breathes into him.

“You seem a little hesitant,” Caleb ventures after some time has passed with little more than kissing and careful touches. “Everything all right?”

“Fine,” Fjord says, a little too quickly. He tugs on Caleb's hip and Caleb follows his lead, straddling Fjord's waist and supporting himself with hands to Fjord's chest. He can feel the warm column of his dick against his backside, but when he rubs back against it, Fjord's grip tightens and his lips go thin and tense.

Caleb eases forward again, sitting up a bit on his knees. “Sure about that?”

A nervous smile touches Fjord’s cheek. “Fine in that I’m really enjoyin’ having you on my lap? Yeah.” He rubs Caleb’s spread thighs with greedy abandon and presses his thumb to the root of his erection. “You’re beautiful, you know that?”

Though it hurts a selfish piece of him, Caleb takes Fjord’s hand away from his dick and kisses the knuckles, which still smell faintly of herbal ointment. “Then why do you look so nervous?” _Kiss_. “I’ll be gentle with you, if that's what you're worried about.”

“I know. That’s—not it.” Fjord looks away. “Your toy…”

“What about it?”

“It wasn’t… entirely correct, anatomically speaking.” He splays his free hand on Caleb’s hip, easing him back to sit on his thighs instead. “This, um. Isn’t entirely what it appears to be.”

Caleb’s eyebrows lift. “You have a magic cock.”

“I do _not_ ,” Fjord huffs, pinching him lightly on the thigh for his insolence. A bead of precome drips from the head of Caleb’s dick and Fjord smirks. Bastard. “The knot is… a bit tricky, is all. I don’t want you going into this without knowing the whole deal.”

“I know what it is,” Caleb interjects, a bit injured that Fjord would doubt his scholarly prowess. “It swells during intercourse and helps the, er, receptive partner retain the semen for a short while after, increasing the chances of conception, which is important in a race with such a low natural fertility rate. I assume yours works similarly, despite not being a full-blooded Orc. Am I wrong?”

Fjord’s face works through a series of expressions, each more incomprehensible than the last, and finally settles on something like pained amusement. “You’re not entirely wrong, but I wouldn’t say you’re entirely _correct_ , either. First of all, the knot _does_ swell a bit during, but it only really gets going when—when I cum. And then we’ll be locked together until it goes down. What your books mean by _a short while_ can be anywhere from ten to twenty minutes, twenty-five at the outside.” Fjord lifts his eyebrows at him. “Are you prepared for a good long cuddle after this is over? _Second_ ,” he continues, lifting a finger before Caleb has a chance to vehemently consent, “second, I’m, er, not in the habit of regular… coitus.” His wrinkles his nose at the word and Caleb coughs a laugh into the crook of his elbow. “Shut up. I just… well first of all, I have no interest in the… the company of women, which means I don’t _have_ to knot regularly to stay sane.”

“Wait,” Caleb blurts, too intrigued to let this detail slip by, “you mean your body… knows?”

Fjord shrugs. “It would seem so. Either that, or the other half of me puts a bit of a damper on it. Full-blooded orcs are _driven_ to copulate on a regular cycle. I feel a bit of that, sometimes, but being a gay half-blood has its perks.” He gives a one-armed shrug, a clever feat for a man lying half-reclined against the pillows. “What I’m trying to say here is, I don’t really have a way of predicting how my body is going to… react. We might be locked together for more time than normal, or less. I’m probably going to make a terrible mess of you either way.” His eyes drop to Caleb’s crotch. “I feel like I should be shocked that you’re not any less turned on after a lecture in orcish physiology, and yet…”

It’s Caleb’s turn to shrug. “I appreciate intelligence and competence in my bed partners.”

“Yeah, I figured.” Fjord wraps a loose hand around his own cock, which had waned just slightly during their conversation, and gives it a few strokes. It perks up quickly at his touch, and when Fjord gives an encouraging nod, Caleb joins him, sliding his fingers down to close around the base. It’s even firmer than the rest, hard in the way the nub of his prostate is hard, almost like a swollen gland. Fjord’s breath kicks up a notch in his chest. “Fuck, Cay—”

“What happens,” Caleb interrupts, deeply fascinated now, “when you cum outside of someone?”

Fjord sputters. “What… what d’you mean?”

“When you masturbate,” Caleb enunciates. He gives the base a bit of a squeeze and watches a thick bead of translucent fluid well up at the head of Fjord’s cock. “Or if you get a handie. Does it still swell…?”

“A little,” Fjord wheezes, visibly struggling to focus in the face of Caleb's shameless curiosity. “It—it only really does its thing when I play with it a lot. Simulate the whole, er, experience. If I want to get off without knotting I just mess around with the top half or so. It’s a bit, um, painful. Otherwise.”

Caleb’s hand slows. “Painful…?”

“If I knot outside of someone. Ah… it needs the pressure, y’know? If it happens on accident and it’s just me, then I gotta fuckin’ sit there for— _fuck_ —ten, fifteen minutes just holding the damn thing until it's through, or it hurts.” At Caleb's sympathetic frown, Fjord twists up to give his ear a reassuring little nuzzle. "It's not as serious as all that, just… inconvenient."

“Oh.” Caleb moves to draw his hand away and stops when Fjord grabs his wrist, coaxing his hand to wrap back around his cock. “I—I’m sorry, I sort of fucked you over just now, didn’t I.”

Fjord pulls back and grins, teeth wide and sharp and reckless. “Not yet you haven’t. I was kinda hopin’ you were still game for it.”

“I _really_ fucking am,” Caleb says fervently, and this time when he eases his hips forward, Fjord is there with a hand on his waist to make it easier. “Hang on a minute, there’s oil—”

“Here.” Fjord reaches over the side of the bed, snatching Caleb’s discarded coat up. Caleb fumbles in the inner pockets for the proper vial and nearly drops it before managing to slick Fjord’s fingers and replace the cap safely. He scoots up a little further and leans down to mouth at the salt-stained bow of Fjord’s collarbones as the other man works two slippery fingers straight into his body, still loose and pliant from his mouth.

“ _Fuck_.” Caleb bites down on flushed, verdant skin to keep from shouting as Fjord brushes casually across his prostate. “Fuck, Fjord, I’m sorry—”

“I think,” Fjord growls, “it’s high time you stop apologizin’ for shit you ain’t done wrong.” And he presses his fingers in as deep as they’ll go, bending in a thick curl until Caleb sees stars. “Ready?”

Caleb gulps for air and nods, already starting to tremble as he eases back. “I’m ready,” he whispers. “Will you help me?”

“‘Course I will.” Fjord’s left hand squeezes his thigh, guiding him until he can feel the blunt warmth of Fjord’s cockhead nudging between his cheeks. “Take a breath for me, darlin’. We’ll go slow.”

Caleb wants to make a clever response about having ridden bigger ponies in his time, but then Fjord’s dick is pressing into him and all breath and wits flee his body at the same time. It’s easier to take than the dildo, by virtue of being flesh rather than stone, and it’s a million times better. Because it’s real. Because it’s _Fjord_. Caleb gapes like a fish on dry land and leans into it, eyes rolling back in his head as he takes Fjord all the way to the hilt.

“Fuck,” he chokes out, flexing his muscles around Fjord’s girth. The knot slipped inside him easily, barely bigger around than the rest of him, and he wonders with heady curiosity what it will feel like when it’s reached full size. “ _Fuck_.”

“Take it easy,” Fjord soothes. He rubs Caleb’s spread thighs with both hands, smile strained but earnest. “We’re in no rush, darlin’.”

“ _Hah… ah._ Speak… for yourself.” Caleb circles his hips in a slow gyration and grips Fjord’s corded forearms for support. “You feel amazing, Fjord, gods…”

“So do you.” Fjord’s eyes flutter half-shut and he rocks up a bit into Caleb’s body, more a tease than a rhythm. “I hope this ain't a disappointment, but I'm not gonna last very long.”

“Neither am I,” Caleb moans. Fjord’s a bit too thick to really bounce on comfortably, his knot keeping everything deliciously tight and close inside him, but every movement forward and back sends waves of sensation cascading through him like ball bearings dropped down a stairwell. The tension ratchets higher with every heartbeat and he knows he’s already on the edge. “Should I—what’s best? Should I come first? Should you?”

Fjord shakes his head helplessly against the pillow. “Whatever you want, I’ll follow your lead.” He squeezes Caleb’s thighs, digging in the claws a little with a breathless smile. “You’ve got the reins on this one, sweetheart.”

Caleb squeezes his eyes shut and moans, rocking with more determination in Fjord’s lap. His cock slaps against his lower belly with each forward motion and that stimulation combined with Fjord’s cock in his ass has him suddenly on the cusp. He arches forward and goes still with a soft, shuddering cry.

“All right?” Fjord asks raggedly, slowing the roll of his hips. His inkwell eyes stare up at Caleb as if he were made of light instead of mortal sinew. Caleb can see the pulse jumping in his throat, in tandem with his own, and nods.

“Made me cum,” he breathes like a dare. His spine feels made of jelly and he curves forward with a breath of relief as Fjord reaches up to catch him and carry him down to lay against his chest.

“You—really? But you didn’t—”

“Dry orgasm,” Caleb mumbles into his sternum. “Happens. I’ll cum again in a minute. Don’t stop, Fjord. I want you to cum inside me. Let me feel your knot.”

“Fuck.”

Fjord’s hips move beneath him with renewed energy and suddenly Caleb begins to feel it: the searing pressure of Fjord’s knot, swelling exponentially as he approaches orgasm. Fjord seizes his hips in a death grip and grinds up into him deep, once, twice. A growl builds in his chest and then Caleb feels the flood of warmth inside him and the solid, foreign weight nestled snugly just inside the rim of his asshole. Fjord shudders for another moment or two, hardly breathing. Then with an almighty sigh he collapses back against the pillows, and they are sealed together, sealed by sweat and bare skin and Fjord’s cock buried firmly in his body.

“There,” Fjord sighs, petting Caleb’s scratched-up flanks with careful hands. “Gods, that's good.” He cranes his neck forward a little and nuzzles soft kisses to Caleb’s hairline, not fussy or demanding, just quiet little presses of lips that echo the soothing pressure of his hands along Caleb’s spine. “Perfect. You’re perfect, Cay.”

Caleb hums and squirms a little, eager to feel every last inch of Fjord sealed inside him. His balls are still drawn up tight against his body, unspent, and as the knot rubs against his insides he feels another fruitless orgasm wring him to mush like it's been squeezed out of him.

“Again?” Fjord murmurs sleepily. He strokes the hair back from Caleb’s sweaty forehead.

“ _Ja_.” With shaking hands, Caleb pushes himself up inch by tremulous inch, pausing to gasp for breath at the steadiness of Fjord’s girth inside him. He’s still hard; when he looks down at himself, his dick is red and glistening, the foreskin pulled well back and each heartbeat pulsing in his groin. He grinds in a tiny circle, short, quick pulses, and sobs aloud as another wave crashes over him.

“Fuck, Caleb…” Fjord is still bogged down in syrupy post-coital bliss and whatever cocktail of hormones is flooding his system from a successful knot, but he still reaches up to touch him—still pets his belly and rubs his nipples, letting his claws tangle in his russet body hair and murmuring soothing sounds as Caleb twitches to pieces on his cock.

Suddenly exhausted, Caleb lets himself be drawn back down. Fjord is firm and sturdy underneath the softness at his chest and waist, but still comfortable. He shuts his eyes for a moment, just a moment, and drifts sluggishly into a heavenly liminal space where all he can feel is the heat of Fjord’s body and the faint vibrations of a rumbling purr deep within his ribcage.

Caleb blinks awake to a shift, flushed and breathless. He squirms, still full and knotted tight to Fjord’s body, and whimpers at the orgasm that ripples through him. His cock is still hard and leaking against his stomach, and Fjord’s knot imprinting a steady heartbeat against his prostate is suddenly more than he can take.

“Please,” he chokes, exhausted and wrung dry and so, so full, “Fjord, I need—”

He barely has the words to convey what he needs, but Fjord knows anyway, somehow, worming his hand between their bodies to take Caleb’s aching cock in a firm grip. It only takes a handful of strokes and Caleb is coming one more time, finally spilling shaky gouts of hot seed over Fjord’s hand and stomach.

Caleb doesn’t realize he’s bitten a perfect circle into Fjord’s pectoral until he draws away long moments later, breathless and _finally_ sated. “Fuck,” he croaks. “I’m sorry, Fjord, I’ve hurt you.”

“Not possible,” Fjord assures him, stroking the sweaty arch of his brow. He cranes forward and lays a careful kiss to the spot. “I think it’s almost over.”

Too exhausted to question it, Caleb just nods and lays still. And, true to Fjord’s word, a minute or two later he feels Fjord’s big hands shifting him, and his softening cock slips from Caleb's body, releasing a warm gush of fluid with it. Fjord makes a face at the feeling.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, but Caleb kisses the word off his lips.

“I wanted it,” he reminds him, and kisses him again, suddenly gun-shy about admitting exactly how much it's still sort of just— _working_ for him. “And it was… it was amazing, Fjord. Thank you.”

Fjord’s brow quirks in confusion. “Thank you for what?”

“For sharing this with me.” Caleb touches the spot he marked on Fjord’s chest and thinks of the healing ointment. It _is_ multipurpose after all. “I’m definitely going to want another bath and a very long nap, but that was everything I wanted and more.”

“Better than your fancy toy?” Fjord teases.

“ _Much_.” He presses another kiss to Fjord’s mouth because he can’t resist, and hums when Fjord catches him up in it, sliding their tongues together with sweet familiarity. “You know…” he begins, and then stops himself, unsure whether the flush of emotion and shared hormonal ecstasy will make him regret this later.

“Hmmmm?”

Caleb shifts, rubber-limbed, and eases onto his side of the mattress. Another well of fluid trickles out of him at the movement, and the pit of his stomach clenches at the implications. “I was going to say,” he continues slowly, “if you ever need this sort of thing again…”

Fjord’s lips quirk in a smile and he leans their foreheads together on the pillow, his eyes still dark and full of fondness. “Yeah. I guess I know who to call.”

**Author's Note:**

>  _I have my body and you have yours. Believe it if you can. Negative space is silly._ (Richard Siken)
> 
>  **UPDATE:** we have??? art for this fic now???? because people are the best, we're very overwhelmed and flattered and generally can't believe peoples' generosity and love for this lovingly crafted pile of filth. in order of appearance:
> 
> • [fjord's thoughtful gift](https://twitter.com/birbyatta/status/1071825794392055808) was done by the amazing [@birbyatta](https://twitter.com/birbyatta)/[@pfaerieart](https://twitter.com/pfaerieart) on twitter, [pfaerie](http://pfaerie.tumblr.com) on tumblr!  
> • [fjord shearing his claws down](https://twitter.com/itsalexdoodle/status/1071531413135155200) was done by the inimitable [@itsalexdoodle](https://twitter.com/itsalexdoodle) on twitter/[alexdoodle](http://alexdoodle.tumblr.com) on tumblr!


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